


Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore ...

by JaqofSpades



Category: Revolution (TV), Zoo (TV)
Genre: Multi, TSC Prompt 19
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4984822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How about we save the games for later and concentrate on the business at hand,” the woman snaps, her seductive accent failing to mask the annoyance in her voice.  “It’s only the imminent extinction of the human species, after all.”</p><p>“So you got nanite problems too, huh?” Bass sighs, but apparently not.  Nobody ever got around to taking out the power here on alterna-earth or wherever they are: instead, the scientists decided to fuck with nature another way.  </p><p>And all the animals are trying to kill them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore ...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Orgy Armada's challenge, The Second Coming, for Prompt 19: "Professors aren't meant to look like that!" for the claims Miles x Mitch (chapter 1), and Bass x Charlie x Jamie x Mitch. There may be a third chapter with a mystery pairing :D

He stares at himself in the mirror, appalled. Wacky dream or not, there’s no excuse for _this_. He’s wearing a button up! And it’s pale fucking blue. One of those wishy-washy colours with a bullshit name like duck-egg or seaspray.

 

It might even be linen, he scowls, rolling the pristine fabric between thumb and forefinger. He and Bass had tried to get a linen industry going in Philadelphia, but it turned out getting flax from plant to fabric was trickier than you’d think, and no one in their territory seemed to know how. He’d forgotten what it felt like to wear something this fine.

 

So maybe there is an excuse for that but the glasses? Chinos, for god sakes? He might as well be wearing a tie.

 

There’s a knock on the door – woah, this dream gets surround sound – and it creaks open.

 

“Are you ready, Dr Morgan?”

 

It’s a very hot blonde with something dancing in her eyes, but before he has a chance to tell her he’s _always_ ready, a smaller woman pushes past her, then frowns up at him. Cute little thing, but why the fuck does she look so pissed?

 

“Tie, Mitch, for God’s sake. We’re trying to convince them you are a revered Professor of Veterinary Whatsit so you have to look the part.”

 

“But I hate ties!”

 

“I know, baby, I know.” She reaches into his pocket, feels around, and – of course there’s a tie in there. “Wear it now and maybe we can do something fun with it later,” she purrs, standing on tiptoe to loop it around his neck.

 

The soft press of her boobs distracts him enough that his brain doesn’t catch up until the two women are frogmarching him out the door.

 

“Wait! Professor? Morgan? What the hell?”

 

And then things get really weird when they turn a corner to find Bass and Charlie pinning a lanky, terrified looking man up against a wall. Miles scrabbles for his own sword, suddenly confronting the fact that he doesn’t _have_ a sword, and he’s looking about for a weapon to steal when the truth slaps in him in the face. Those are his swords, right there in Charlie’s hands. And she seems to have taken ‘em off weasel-features. Who, now he thinks about it ...

 

The dude is wearing his clothes!

 

And his face.

 

“Mitch?”

 

“Miles?”

 

The men in question ignore the consternation flying around them, unable to take their eyes off the other. The skinny dude has gotta be this Mitch the two chicks were confusing him with, and now that he’s actually looking at him – yeah. He can see why. It’s like looking into a fucking mirror. And now that Charlie has taken her blade away from fake-Miles’ neck, scared shitless is turning into severely pissed off, and … wow. Even more familiar. Maybe other him has a backbone after all.

 

“Let me guess. You’re the Professor dude.”

 

“And you’re the one who actually carries _swords_. Not even one sword! Two pieces of deadly weaponry for whoever the hell you might be,” the other guy raves, as if it’s weird or something.

 

“Hey! You have a fucking pocket protector! And a jacket with patches on the elbows!” He’ll leave off the linen shirt thing. Feels kinda nice. Play this right and maybe he’ll get to keep it.

 

“Uncle Miles?”   Charlie has completely dropped her guard in her shock, giving him a slack-jawed once over. “Is that really you? You’re so … clean.”

 

He bristles as he remembers how long it’s been since he actually had a proper shower, and … fuck. Holy fuck. The sun is going down outside, but it doesn’t matter.

 

They’re standing in a well-lit hallway, under electric lights.

 

Reality flows over him in a freezing cold tide. This isn’t a dream. No one who has survived the Blackout would ever dream this - it hurts too much when you wake up. So. Where the fuck were they, and why is that guy wearing his clothes?

 

And possibly his body, Miles realises as he swings into a fighting stance. For once, his creaky knees seem happy to oblige. His back is less happy, but his bad hand … Miles goggles at the smooth skin without a single callus to mark his years of swinging a sword. Every one of his fingers straight and not even a touch of arthritis. No hollowed out area where that goddamn mallet made mincemeat of a bunch of little bones, either. He could probably thread a needle with this hand if he had to … though the eyes were a bit of a worry, though. No wonder he didn’t recognise his own fucking face at first.

 

He’s not the only one taking inventory.

 

“Knife wound,” Bass shrugs as the guy finds the nasty scar just below his ribcage. “There’s one in your back too – you killed six of the bastards, and I got there in time to get four more, but you took a couple of hits. Nothing like the shrapnel wound on your thigh, though. We were lucky there. Just missed your cock.”

 

“My cock, Bass. Not his cock – mine!”

 

“Yeah – apparently not anymore, four eyes. Pretty obvious what’s going on here. Things have gotten a little Freaky Friday and we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

 

Charlie gives Bass her patented “wtf Monroe?” stare and returns to trying to spot the differences between the man who looks exactly like her uncle and the man who actually is.

 

And little brunette next to him is finally catching up too. She’s unhitched her elbow from his and stepped away to study him. “You’re not … Mitch,” she concludes.

 

Miles shrugs in apology. “Nah. But if you still wanna do fun things with that tie, I’m willing to pretend for a bit longer,” he offers with a wink. “Just tell me your name first.”

 

“How about we save the games for later and concentrate on the business at hand,” the other woman snaps, her seductive accent failing to mask the annoyance in her voice. “It’s only the imminent extinction of the human species, after all.”

 

“So you got nanite problems too, huh?” Bass sighs, but apparently not. Nobody ever got around to taking out the power here on alterna-earth or wherever they are: instead, the scientists decided to fuck with nature another way.

 

And all the animals are trying to kill them.

 

*

 

“So what the fuck are we here for anyway?” Bass asks the question of the night as they sit in the bar throwing back shots. The good Professor had reclaimed his clothes, pressed the flesh and then proceeded to scare the pants off every last one of them, including the reprobates sitting in the back row of the lecture theatre.

 

“I mean – I can slice and dice with the best of them, and if an animal is trying to kill me, I damn well will, but … it’s kinda beyond our skill set, doncha think?”

 

Miles makes a mute gesture of agreement, and sloshes more whiskey into Mitch’s glass, then tops up the other at the table.

 

“Maybe we’re the ones that need the help?” Charlie muses, and there has to be merit in it, because they’re an interesting group, Mitch’s people.

 

Chloe had reeled off a long, boring job title that made no sense until Jamie caught his attention from behind her head and mouthed “spy”. And he wasn’t even one bit surprised when the mouthy little troublemaker turned out to be a journalist with a strong sideline in hacking.

 

“What’s hacking?” Charlie had asked, and ever since Jamie had been falling all over herself to explain about computers, and the Internet, and a whole lot of other stuff that went right over Charlie’s head but kept her nodding and moving closer.

 

Miles looks up to see Bass watching the two women with a smirk that spells danger, and shakes his head.

 

“What?”

 

He swings around in surprise and is hit once more with just how weird it is to find yourself staring into your own face. The scar next to his ear that he got falling off his bike when he was ten, the crooked nose he’d almost forgotten he had. Laugh lines around his eyes, even though Miles can’t remember the last time he laughed.

 

Wrong, he realises. This afternoon, Morgan had just discovered he was bare-assed under the black jeans when Jamie had stuck her head into the room to hurry them up. He doesn’t have a clue what’s going on between them, but he’d been close enough to hear her words, even if Morgan hadn’t.

 

“Professors just aren’t meant to _look_ like that,” she’d groaned, gobbling him up with one last, hungry glance before she had fled. And now Morgan is pretending not to watch her as she giggles and flirts with Bass and Charlie.

 

Miles is seeing enough for the both of them. “How serious are you about that girl?”

 

“Ja – wha – no,” his doppleganger splutters. “She’s a good friend. A very good friend,” he says, and fuck – is that actually a _blush_?

 

“Well, my niece wants to investigate your good friend’s business pretty damn thoroughly,” Miles smirks, trying to ignore just how much his cock approves of that mental image. “So if you and her are a thing, you might wanna tell Charlie and Bass to back off.”

 

Professor can’t-take-a-hint frowns at him. “Bass? What’s he got to do with it?”

 

Miles cocks a brow and waits for the implication to drop.

 

“ _Seriously_?”

 

“Let’s just say the team that plays together stays together. And Bass and Charlie – man do they love to play.”

 

Mitch slinks off to deal with that, and Miles offers him a whiskey salute for luck. He feels he should maybe help the guy out somehow, and when he hits the head, the solution is staring across at him from the opposite wall.

 

He’d forgotten how it used to be.

 

Reliable, easy-to-wear condoms available practically everywhere, and in the very next row of the vending machine, the thing he missed most. Lube. The good synthetic stuff that tasted sweet and rinsed away to nothing.

 

All he had to do now was figure out who he most wanted to distract. Which is kind of a lie, because the answer’s been staring him in the face the whole time.


End file.
